


Perfect Day

by maddienole



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family Issues, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23031031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddienole/pseuds/maddienole
Summary: The trials and tribulations of a young Mycroft Holmes.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Perfect Day

It was supposed to be the perfect day, he thought. Mycroft Holmes, aged fourteen, had won. This fact in itself wasn’t unusual. He always won. Always.

Except once.

It was exactly one year ago, against a boy named Stephen Anderson. Aged fifteen. Wealthy, well-read, and intelligent. Those with the ability to properly utilize any area of the brain were hard to come by. But Stephen Anderson was the only person in the entire planet who could claim to have beaten Mycroft Holmes.

And it killed him.

Mycroft didn’t have much. Friends were out of the question - far to much work to maintain. School bored him and any form of physical exertion was life threatening.

Ok, not really but it often _felt_ like it.

He was taller than his classmates and overweight, baby fat that never seemed to have shaken off as the years passed. His pale, freckled skin was subject to burning if left out in the sun for too long, and his hair, _his hair_ , blonde as an infant turned a gruesome shade of red. It was horrifying.

But the one thing Mycroft had, the one thing he could always rely on even in the darkest of times, was his brain. He could not allow for defeat.

Which was why tonight was so important. He had joined the debate team three years ago, slowly moving up the ranks as he tore apart the competition. And all of his work, his carefully sculpted arguments, would be for naught if he wasn’t able to defeat the smug, pug faced Anderson.

And he did.

He clutched the handle of his trophy, heavier than he thought it would, as the light reflected off its smooth golden surface. Many people cheered, the applause echoing off the walls of the room. Stephen’s parents were there, dressed like what Mycroft assumed rich people dressed like, offering words of comfort to their son. The room was filled with family members.

Except his.

Life in the Holmes house was never simple. But of late, any and all tension had broken loose. You could feel it in the air once you stepped through the door. It permeated every room, stifled every conversation. It was miserable.

There would always be something wrong with his little sister. He knew it from the start, even as his parents continued to overlook it. As they still did. The hospital they had placed her in wouldn’t help, and deep-down Mycroft felt his parents knew this. But denial was a strong beast. Sherlock has simply stopped fighting. Rewriting your memories was an act of cowardice in Mycroft’s eyes. Facing the truth was a part of life, and he shouldn’t be shielded from it.

His parents had different ideas. That as a child it would be better for him to forget. He was a sensitive soul. He couldn’t handle it, he simply _couldn’t._

It will be his downfall.

But, there was nothing he could do. He...was nothing. He doubted he even existed in his parents’ eyes. The amount of attention they spent with their younger two children was immense, but not surprising. They were both children who were mentally stunted and needed help. Just not the help they were trying to give.

 _But you’re a child too_ , a small voice in the back of his mind said.

But then again, _caring isn’t an advantage_ , he wanted to say back. Uncle Rudy once told him that, several months ago after Eurus had been taken away.

He couldn’t be a child anymore. The path his life had chosen for him simply wouldn’t allow for it. He would be forced to adapt.

He tightened his hold on his trophy as he shoved his way past the many adults clustered in the room. The event was reaching towards the end and many people were already beginning to leave. The first thing he noticed after getting outside was the feel of humidity in the air, forming a thick blanket of moisture around him. It was far too dark at this time of night. Rain was approaching.

Normally mother would pick him up after events such as these, but that clearly wasn’t the case tonight. As he watched other children exiting the building with their parents, he realized the last thing he wanted was for people to see him alone. He didn’t need to add any more fuel to the fire on his irregular personal life.

_Fine, I’ll walk._

#

His body wasn’t used to an extended period of movement. Once he started, he kept telling himself that it was only 6 kilometers. Only. It shouldn’t be that hard, right? But every step he took required more effort than the last. His legs stopped responding to his brain as he tried to avoid being seen by the passing cars. The humidity was suffocating, hindering his ability to see. To think.

And then it rained. The sky lost its grip on the water it held within, unleashing with fury across earth. It poured with a vengeance, the sound of rain against the pavement was almost defeating, as if a thousand guns were going at once, continuously. If there was one thing Mycroft hated more than people, it was noise. The headaches it gave him were debilitating.

What started off as a slow journey became a trudge. His feet sank deep into the wet earth, mud and rainwater soaking his socks. His collared shirt clung to his wide frame as he tried to blink the excess water out of his eyes. His trophy threatened to slip from his grip, but he held onto it like a lifeline. He would not lose the one thing he had worked so hard for. It was inconceivable.

He could feel the tears threatening to escape.

No, he could not cry. He _won’t._ He was not a child anymore.

He wasn’t sure how much farther he walked before his knees began to buckle. He had to sit. The tree he found gave little comfort but provided a small reprieve from the rain pelting down from the sky. He didn’t think it would be possible to be more miserable than he was now, sopping wet and shivering by himself at nightfall in the middle of nowhere.

He drew his knees up to his chest to try and conserve warmth, whatever left there was. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to imagine himself in any other place but the one he was at.

“Close your eyes,” Rudy had told him. “Focus your attention on only one thing. Don’t allow for distractions.”

When he opened his eyes again, he wasn’t outside. He was in a library.

His library.

It took him several years to decide how his mind palace would be structured. When he was younger, it was a castle. A massive thing with an infinite amount of rooms and corridors. But it was too messy. His memories were scattered about and impossible to find when he needed them. He eventually drew the conclusion that he needed to refine his work.

The corridors soon became shelves and memories transformed into the books within them. Filed in order of occurrence, though the frequently used ones were stored in the front. Every conversation, movie, book, or event that he had ever experienced could be found here, tucked away in the recesses of his mind. He just needed to take time and find it.

Mycroft spent time walking through the rows of books, which had grown considerably over the years along with the massive influx of information that he had obtained. He ventured much farther back that his usual mind palace exploits.

The darkened corridor contained fewer shelves with fewer books. Books that haven’t been opened in years, standing at least a foot above his head.

_Why did I put them up there?_

Because he didn’t have any need for them. At least, that’s what he thought. But unlike his brother, Mycroft didn’t like deleting his memories. Throwing out a book hurt him more than anything else in life. But he had placed them in such an inconvenient position that it may take some ingenious thinking to get to them. Not all memories were as easy to obtain than others.

He began to scale the mahogany shelves that housed his books. Carefully, accurately, placing one foot above the other in a calculated move to avoid any pitfalls or barriers on his way up. He certainly didn’t want to fall and start from the beginning. He wasn’t sure how long it took to reach the top, time in his mind palace didn’t move at the same pace as it did in the real world.

This row of books was dusty, barely used. In his life, Mycroft didn’t suspect he had ever opened them back up. He eventually chose a light looking book with a pale green cover before starting his decent. It wasn’t easier on the way down. He could barely see beneath his feet and the movements he could make with his arms were limited by the book he was holding. He decided to take a leap of faith on what he assumed was the halfway point, hoping that it would be close enough to remain on his feet when landing.

As per usual, it was not. He landed on his feet with enough force to cause his knees to buckle and him to land firmly on his backside.

“It’s my own mind palace and I still can’t prevent me from hurting myself."

He reached out for the book he had grabbed. It was incredibly small, maybe containing only a couple of seconds. A minute at most. He had gotten better over the years at storing information. Some of his books contained memories that lasted hours, in much better detail.

But this one? This was from long ago. He had a generally idea of what he would see, but it wasn’t a complete assurance. He wasn’t fond of surprises.

#

He was in a lawn. No, a field. Much bigger than a lawn. Or perhaps it only looked bigger to him. He was so incredibly small that the world surrounding him seemed endless. He could feel the grass crunching under his bare feet, dirt sticking to his legs and onto his shorts. The sun hung up high in the sky.

Was it hot?

He couldn’t feel the heat, which conflicted with the sight of the sun beating down on him. It was possible he forgot to record that sensation. Or perhaps he just didn’t notice at the time. He favored the latter.

But this wasn’t what he was here for.

His younger self continued to run, now at a full sprint. The amount of energy he used to have as a small child astounded him. Things must have seemed so much more exciting back then. He came to a stop when he reached his target, breathing heavily.

Mother. She seemed....so much bigger. Her hair, now beginning to grey, was completely dark, tied up in a loose bun. Her dress was yellow with flowers on it. Her nails were red? No pink. A dark-ish pink. Mycroft drunk in every single detail of her. But what stood out most was her smile. Her smile that used to light up the whole room. He thought she was the most beautiful person in the entire world and he would give anything to see it again.

He could feel her pick him up and hold him close and he threw his tiny arms around her neck.

“Aren’t you tired, little one?” she asked, just a touch of amusement in her voice.

Even her voice sounded different.

“No!” he squealed gleefully. He wriggled out of his mother’s grip before running back in the opposite direction. He could hear his mother yell something that he wasn’t able to discern.

 _Turn around_ , he pleaded with himself. She wants to talk with you! Go back! It was a fruitless endeavor. And before he knew it, before he was ready, the world turned black. 

He was back in his library. He was still holding the book in his hands, tears in his eyes. Tears that he didn’t think he would be able to stop. It was a tiny memory. Insignificant. Yet, it meant everything to him. It was a time before his brother and sister. A time before mental hospitals and attempted murder. A time when his mother used to smile.

He threw the book as far away from him as he could. He didn’t want to see it again. The pain was too much.

 _Caring is not an advantage._ The voice of his uncle surrounded him.

It was now that he truly began to understand what that meant.

#

He closed his eyes for just a moment and opened them back up to find himself in his original position, beneath a tree during a thunderstorm. Or, what was a thunderstorm. It had lightened up in the time he had been gone, with the downpour turning into a light drizzle. Mycroft had no sense of what time it was, the sky had gone completely black so it was certainly later than when he had intended to get home. 

He forced himself onto his feet to prepare for the remaining trek. He tried not to linger on the memory, but extended periods of time alone with his thoughts often left him with feelings of anxiety or dread. Mother once tried to take him to a psychiatrist, but he doubted any type of drug would help him. 

He needed a distraction. Sometimes when he was bored, he would read a book. Not in the traditional way, but would instead recall the pages in his head. His favorite was the Count of Monte Cristo. He was able to recall the entire book from memory just before his seventh birthday. Now of course he had plenty of other things to entertain him. Every chess match he played was stored up there so he could perfect his method. Every song. Every movie. 

In this case, he decided on reciting the digits of pi. Something about the long drawl of numbers soothed him. 

#

It wasn’t long before he made it back to his house. The lights on the front porch were on, but the door was locked. Mycroft had been entrusted with a key several years back and used it to enter. There were voices coming from the living room. He didn’t expect to see his father, as he was away at a conference for several days. Mother, however, was there. And so was Sherlock, half dressed in his pajamas.

“Shirley dear,” his mother cooed, “I know you don’t want to go to bed, but little boys need to sleep.”

“I’m not little,” his brother exclaimed. “I am…below average.”

“Well, you certainly aren’t going to grow if you don’t get any rest. You can play pirates tomorrow,” mother responded.

“I don’t play pirates anymore. I have outgrown it.”

Mother sighed. “Shirley…”

“Sherlock,” his brother corrected.

“Sherlock. How about I let you stay up for 10 more minutes? Would you go to bed then?”

 _That’ll teach him_ , Mycroft thought. Annoyed with this conversation, he stepped into the room to let his presence be known. 

Sherlock’s eyes shot up. 

“You look gross,” he finally concluded after his detailed observation of his body. 

“Myc,” his mother started. “You are dripping water all over the floor.”

“I walked home in a rainstorm,” he said dryly. 

“Where were you?”

“The debate. The one I told you about.” He took note of his mother’s confused expression. “I marked it down. You said you might be able to come if you had time.” 

A look of recognition passed. “You are right, aren’t you? I’m sorry dear, but I’ve been terribly busy lately. Your father is out again and your brother…”

“I know,” Mycroft said, casting a glance at Sherlock, who now seemed more interested in father’s bookcase than this conversation. 

He waited. He waited for her to ask. All he wanted was for her to ask. 

“Myc, dear, when you get the chance, will you clean the floors? You’ve tracked mud on them.” 

_No. Wrong question._

She apparently took his silence as a confirmation. 

Another second passed. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “I nearly forgot to ask. How did it go?” 

He got what he wanted. Yet why did her question feel so hollow? And so…loaded? He had worked so hard. Hard work wasn’t something he was used to, given that anything he ever wanted academically was almost always handed to him. The faces of all the parents in the room flashed through his mind. Stephen Anderson’s parents who comforted his son after his defeat. Children running to their guardians after the events to share in celebration or for solace in their losses. The memory he had dug up from his archives – his mother, young carefree, and _attentive._

He looked her directly in the eye. 

“I won,” he said tonelessly. He placed his trophy, now stained with mud and grass, on the coffee table and walked as quickly out of the room as his legs would take him.

It was supposed to be a perfect day.


End file.
